


Laughing Through Death

by mia6363



Series: C'mon, Live a Little [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Consensual Possession, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Possession, Smut, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: “I’m Bobby. The dead guy who lived here before you. Well, I mean, I waslivingat the time. Not anymore.”





	1. Just A Ghost With a Big Personality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Malapropian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/gifts).



Time for the living was so vivid, so caught up in the details of every passing second. Every breath, every step, every second that ticked by was a thousand experiences all conducted by rushing blood and pulled breath. It was finite. It was suffocating. 

Time for the dead was much different. It would often bleed into long, molasses slow rivers of… sleep. Of wonderful peace that would fade into dull, boring lulls of more _nothing_ , only to finally end because—

Someone was in Bobby Finstock’s house. 

Endless darkness and yawning silence was ripped from him. Usually when this happened it was a bunch of squatting teens, looking for a crappy place to get high or fuck. Finstock’s shock and ensuing rage was enough to send them running. This time, as his surroundings came back to him, he could already tell that it was different. Instead of the walls being run down with curling, ugly wall paper and stained rugs, everything had been sanded down into something smooth and new. The tacky patterned table sets were gone. Replacing everything Finstock had previously owned, were paint cans and a two women.

“— like it, Mom. I think it’s really nice.” 

“That’s because you think everything is nice.” The older woman, the mother, snipped back and the daughter swallowed a sigh, her shoulders going slack as she lugged out paint can. “I can only stay for an hour, then I need to go back to the hospital.”

The younger woman cracked open the can and her eyes widened at the color. The label said _eggshell white_ but Finstock would have called it _nervous breakdown white_. 

“Mom, did you only buy this color?” 

“Yes. It’s clean and will look good. Why?” 

_Because I’d go fucking nuts with white walls, that’s fucking why_ , Finstock thought as the young woman bit back what had to be shared sentiment. She shrugged and grabbed a paint roller.

Every long stripe of white paint made Finstock feel more solid, more _present_. He learned a couple of things, like the mother called all the shots and was comfortable doing so. The father was sick in the hospital, though it didn’t sound too dire. The daughter hummed under her breath, something sweet and bubbly. When her mother left the daughter exhaled like she’d been punched. 

Finstock stretched, relearning how to move and the limits of his body. The girl let her head fall back against his front door. He watched her breathe, her chest rising and falling. He wondered how loud her heartbeat was and how warm the blood in her veins kept her. She pushed herself off the door and dug through her bag and pulled out… something. Finstock hadn’t seen anything like it, but with a few gentle touches the little rectangle blared to life with music. 

It’s a song he’s never heard, but he liked how it made her smile, how the tension around her eyes melted away when she sang. She painted with renewed energy, singing song after song. As she worked Finstock walked around his old house, to the kitchen, his bedroom, the bathroom, and the only reason he knew he was home was because… where else would he be? They got rid of his ugly orange and goldenrod wallpaper. The rugs, the furniture, all gone. 

Normally it would make him angry, angry enough to send temperatures plummeting while the electronics went haywire. 

The girl passed through him and just that simple brief contact was enough for Finstock to reel back from the _bubbly warmth_ that twisted and tightened around him. She shivered but her smile didn’t fade. She held her paint roller and sighed.

“This color sucks.” 

Finstock snorted. 

“Agreed.”

She didn’t hear him and he didn’t want her to. He felt nothing but amicable curiosity. No anger or bitterness. She clicked her tongue with a roll of her eyes. 

“I’d kill for some color.”

When she left, Finstock felt himself wishing she would stay. 

Remembering his body was easy once he got the hang of it. Existence was like riding a bicycle, you never really forgot how. He started by pushing dust-bunnies, flickering the lights, and it ended with him going into the basement to dig around for old paint cans. Folks had a habit of either squatting or flinging paint in his old place, and sure enough there were some fairly recently bought cans. 

He had to concentrate hard just to make his finger physical enough to wipe the dust off the labels. His head throbbed by the time he had all the labels cleared. Greens, blues, pinks, and golds were in the basement. It took a some trial and errors, but eventually he was able to drag the cans up one by one. 

Finstock took care to place them among the group of white cans. He put the finishing touches on making it look perfectly inconspicuous when the door opened. He twisted around, sunlight pouring through his front door around the young woman. 

Finstock smiled without thinking as she set her bags down, dressed in weathered work clothes. Her pants hung loose on her hips and her shirt was riddled with holes She tied her hair up and turned on music… and Finstock thought _I like her_ as she bobbed her head to the beat. 

“All right,” she spoke to no one, though Finstock let his lips curl as though she were speaking to him. “Time to get this show on the road.” 

She went back to the paints, her smile wavering when she saw the same white cans. Finstock stayed with her as she paused, noticing the cans. She frowned, reaching for them… 

Finstock watched her mouth fall open at the colors on the labels. Her fingers gripped the can with ease and her laughter was bewildered. She snorted, her nose wrinkling, and if Finstock still had a beating heart he was sure it would have skipped. She popped open a can and dipped her fingers into the gold paint. He watched, transfixed, as her brown eyes lifted to the white walls.

She whipped her hand to the side and sent speckles of paint flying. They splattered across the walls in lively streaks and spots. When she laughed it was loud and made her head tilt back. Finstock watched her turn back to the gold paint, eagerly dipping her fingers back in. 

_She can stay._

::::

All her life, Kira thought that her parents struck the perfect balance, that they complimented each other perfectly in every way. Where her mother was severe, her father was soft, while her mother couldn’t cook, her father could have been a professional chef, her mother was direct about the ugliness of the world, and her father was happy to provide instances of creativity and joy. 

Ken Yukimura gently wove thread between his fingers, patiently working a knot out of his yarn. When Kira stepped through the doorway he lit up, his lips lifting into a smile that brightened the room, bright enough that Kira could almost forget she was in a hospital. 

“Kira!” He struggled to sit up and Kira hurried so he didn’t put too much strain on his ribs. He opened his arms and Kira hugged him, her bags falling off her arms to the floor so she could embrace her father. “It’s good to see you, firebug,” he leaned back, his hands on her arms as he got a better look at her face. “You look good.” 

He always said that. Kira could be violently ill with a crusty nose and bloodshot eyes and he’d always say _you look good_. 

“Thanks, dad.” She swallowed but it did nothing to relieve the tightness in her throat. “How are you, are you feeling okay?” 

Her father smiled like _Kira_ was the one being ridiculous. 

“Perfectly fine, feeling better already, I should be able to leave this afternoon.” Yoshiko had strong lungs that helped her voice fill a room, apparently she had also been in a choir when she was young. Ken was soft spoken, his voice a rarity to be heard louder than a calm inside-voice. Keeping in line with their complementary relationship, Kira supposed it made sense that her father’s lungs had a habit of collapsing. “Hey, stop that.” He clicked his tongue and smoothed his fingers over the wrinkles on Kira’s forehead. “No more worrying, I’m _fine_.” 

Kira pulled over a chair, retrieving the yarn ball that had rolled onto the floor. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She felt a her shoulders relax at the sight of her father settling back, winding thread between his fingers. “I’m going to take a look at your classroom today and start setting up.” 

Her mother returned and saw the splatters of color that still stained Kira’s fingers. 

“ _Kira_ , what did you do to your hands?”

Beacon Hills was a town that Kira had only visited because her parents had moved there. It was different from the city Kira was so used to. People moved slower, traffic was quieter, and everything was _greener_. When Kira went to the grocery store, people stared. She _hoped_ it was only because she was new in town. 

Her father’s keys weighed down her hands as she slid it into the high school’s doors. It was summer, the air a bit humid with the sign of oncoming rain. The halls were large and Kira’s footsteps echoed in the dark. 

She missed the noise that came with the city, the race to run from job to job, making ends meet but also the rush of making friends, of never really feeling alone because there were so many people _around_. Beacon Hills had no city lights and once the sun set, the dark was endless and intimidating. Her father had fallen ill, and at his age it was getting harder and harder to bounce back. So Kira left her city, and that’s how she found herself opening her father’s classroom.

It had been stripped bare. She gazed at the shelves, the walls, the desks, and tried not to let her eyes well up with tears. 

“Are you Ken’s replacement?” Kira whirled around to see a man who was entirely too well-dressed for the amount of humidity in the air. His hair was swept back with an elegance that made him seem like he’d fallen out of a Vanity Fair spread. He wore a button-up shirt with slacks, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a pink bandaid on his ring-finger, and for some reason it was that detail that made Kira’s heartbeat return to a non-panicked rhythm. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.” 

Kira’s shoulders tightened. 

“I’m not _replacing_ him. I’m just a stand-in until he feels better.” 

“Sure,” the man rolled his grey-blue eyes, “but I’m sure once he tastes what retirement is like then he’ll change his mind to escape these brats.” 

“He _loves_ teaching. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him describe his students anything less than exemplary.” Kira had always felt like a poor combination of her parents, she wasn’t soft enough like her dad to be considered nurturing, and she wasn’t hard enough to be a leader like her mother. When she _did_ let anger make her voice rise, she felt rubbed raw, weakened instead of emboldened. “He’ll recover and be eager to return to his classroom and students.”

A slight ringing filled the silence. She sucked in a trembling breath, her ears hot. The man’s smirk melted into a smile that was _slightly_ warmer. 

“Ken said you’d be a firebug.” He held out his hand. “I’m Peter Hale. I’m an English teacher, I’m across the hall from you.” 

The use of her father’s nickname for her dissipated her indignant anger. Kira swallowed and shook Peter’s hand. 

“Kira Yukimura.” 

Peter’s smile widened. 

“I know. Come on, I’ve got to go on a supply run. I’ll show you where to get the good deals.” 

Most of her day was spent with Peter Hale, setting up their classrooms as he caught her up on the school gossip and gave her advice. She wondered if her father had asked him to look out for her… and the thought made her hands shake. She pinned large swaths of colorful construction paper to cork boards that covered the grey walls. 

Peter opened the windows to let in a breeze and he wiped sweat from his brow. 

“I shouldn’t have to tell you not to show fear, right? Your father might not call the students brats but I do.” Kira caught the water bottle he tossed to her. She hummed gratefully, sucking down water. “I can teach you some breathing practices to keep your voice steady and strong.”

Kira studied Peter’s stance, how he moved and how he projected his voice.

“Do you direct the plays here too, Peter?”

Peter blinked and his face went slack with shock. 

“I do. How did you know?” 

Kira grinned and shrugged. 

“Dunno.” 

Peter’s eyes narrowed. 

“Ken didn’t tell me his daughter was a smart ass.” 

She laughed and she felt lighter than she had since she came to Beacon Hills. He laughed with her, uneven like he’d been startled by her reaction. She felt more sure about her stepping into her father’s classroom as a temporary stand-in, especially if Peter was going to be across the hall. 

When she opened the door to her tiny house on the hill, she smiled. The smell of the paint was still heavy in the air, but lessening as the wind blew through the windows. The move was more permanent than she let Peter believe, but she knew she mostly said it for herself as well. Her mother had gotten her a house, a small one that needed a lot of fixing up, but still. _A house_. A house in _Kira’s name_. 

She kicked off her shoes and shut the door. Slowly, with a lot of sanding, painting, and putting furniture together… it was starting to come together. She listened to her house creak and settle as she wiggled her goes on the wood floor.

When the sun went down and all was dark outside, Kira felt as though her house was adrift in a black sea. 

She unbuttoned her pants and stepped out of them on the way to her bedroom, kicking them into her hamper once she was inside. She stepped back out into the hall but was hit with a chill so severe that Kira gasped, hurrying back to pull on sweatpants and squishy socks. The air had returned to a normal nighttime coolness when she reemerged from her bedroom. 

The colorful splatters of paint had been decorated on the floors and walls. It was delightful to Kira, and messy to her mother. Kira felt as though she were walking through an art gallery because of it, even though she was in her pajamas sitting in her kitchen. Hot water brewed on the stove and Kira leaned her head back against the cupboards, her feet swinging as she sat on the counter. 

She should feel lonely. There were times when even in the city she had to push back the creeping, _crushing_ , knowledge of her own isolation. Certainly, now that she was in a rural town where she was living alone and the only people she really knew were her parents, she should feel the dizzying spiral of loneliness.

The tea kettle whistled and Kira slid down from the counter. She poured the water into a pot with two ginger-tea bags. She didn’t have a lot of furniture and her kitchen table only had two chairs, one which wobbled. It was strange… but her house didn’t seem empty. 

Hot steam curled in the air from her cup, the wind lazed through the open windows, and Kira’s throat tightened with _something_ that she couldn’t identify. She breathed in the scent of ginger and thought, _it’s not so bad. It’s quite nice, actually_. 

::::

Finstock’s house had been a shit hole, he’d admit that to anyone who asked. The carpets had cigarette burns in them, the wallpaper had yellowed and curled, and whoever previously had the house had the genius idea that all the furniture had to be a warm diarrea brown. He had blinder drapes that always got tangled and the grout in his bathroom had been stained a rusty black. 

A man came into his house and whistled, leaning down to kiss the woman’s cheek. 

“Wow, Kira. From what I’ve heard about this place, you’ve given it quite the face lift. Nice work, Yukimura” 

_Kira_ , Finstock forgot to be annoyed at the stranger in his home, not when he finally had a name for her face. _Kira Yukimura_. 

“Thanks, it was a lot of work,” Kira closed the door behind them and when her eyes swept over Finstock’s old home he grinned with her. “But it was totally worth it.” 

Finstock followed them and listened as Kira gave him a short tour. She described the work it took and the man studied the streaks of color thrown on the walls. 

“I like this,” he ran his finger along a particular violent streak of red, “very Jackson Pollack.” 

“That was my inspiration.” 

They talked fast and Peter had brought notebooks and several pens. By listening, Finstock gathered that they were teachers at Beacon Hills High School, and that Kira was new. She had worry lines on her forehead, but as the night progressed and she had a solid plan, they lessened. 

Finstock had a lingering anxiety when he watched how Kira and her male companion moved about each other, that his night was going to turn into some twisted Playboy letter-to-the-editor. It was startling enough to be reminded that Kira believed she was alone, so kicking off her pants in the middle of the living room was no big deal. He managed to make it cold enough so that when she was out of the privacy of her bedroom that she’d pull on more than just underwear. 

The rest of the night Finstock felt constricted, waiting for the inevitable pause, intake of breath, followed by wet and messy kisses that would melt into awkward shedding of clothes and—

And Finstock was getting ahead of himself. During his worrying, the man had left. It was just Kira and him, though to Kira it was _just Kira_. She packed away the notebooks, and unwrapped a few gifts Peter had left. Wine glasses, and a cocktail mixer. Kira frowned, the cocktail mixer large in her slender hands. 

“Well, that was fun. But this isn’t _Mad Men_.” She twisted to look back at her cabinets. “Fuck.” Finstock watched as she dragged a chair over. She stood on it so she could stretch to the very top shelf of the cabinet. She had to lift up onto the tips of her toes just so brush her fingers on the shelf. “Why do they even make shelves this high, who puts stuff they’re actually going to _use_ up here?” 

Her legs shook and Finstock laughed, unable to stop himself. 

“I think I just threw all my junkmail up there and any dumb shit from my extended family.” 

Kira froze. So did Finstock. He thought, _oh shit_ , just as she turned, too quickly and too awkwardly. The chair squeaked and jerked beneath her feet and— 

Finstock wasn’t given a handbook on being dead. All he knew was that he could do a few tricks. He could definitely touch and move things with the right amount of concentration, temperatures would change with his mood, and _sometimes_ people could see and hear him. He didn’t know the rules. He didn’t know the limits. _Then again_ , Finstock had time to think as Kira Yukimura fell, _I didn’t give a shit about limits in life. Why stop now?_

Not having a physical body, only the _memory_ of a body, was usually very tricky to maneuver. The paint cans, for example. It took hours for Finstock to focus on the memory of having fingers, and then the muscles it took to _use_ those fingers, and so on and so forth. Some of it was second-nature, once he got the hang of it, but for the most part, any sort of physical contact took a lot of work. 

When he reached for her, he thought that she was going to go right through him. 

His fingers hit her, and he _felt her_ , her warm flesh, and he _caught her_. His knees buckled and he let his body take the brunt of the fall. Kira’s breath was so hot against him. She was _touching him_ , twisting around frantically, her brown eyes wide and staring down at her hand that was on what Finstock remembered of his chest. She heaved in a breath, one that made her entire body tense and— 

Kira’s hands hit the floor with a _thud_.

“Oh God,” Finstock reeled back, to give her space. It didn’t help, Kira’s eyes darted around the room as she scrambled back, her hands raking over her tender skin on the inside of her arms. “Oh God.” 

When Finstock scared squatters and dumb punks that just wanted to fuck and smoke pot in his abandoned house, it was funny. Watching Kira’s face lose an alarming amount of color as she pressed her back against the refrigerator… there was nothing funny about it. 

“Easy,” Kira’s eyes jumped to the direction of his voice and she started to shudder. “I didn’t want you to fall—” 

“Please,” her voice cracked and her grip on her own arm tightened. “Don’t hurt me, please.” 

“I’m not,” Finstock sighed, “I’m not gonna hurt you. I can barely fucking touch you, it’s not like I meant to give you that delayed rough landing.” The more he talked the fear turned to confusion. Hell, Finstock would take confused over fear any day of the week. “Look, I’m sorry, I promise I didn’t mean to scare you, I just— I didn’t want you to get hurt when you fell. I mean, you would have survived, probably, but it’s a rough fall.” 

Kira sniffed but Finstock saw her shoulders lower a few centimeters. 

“So…” She wiped her eyes roughly with the back of her hand. “Who are you?” 

“I’m Bobby. The dead guy who lived here before you. Well, I mean, I was _living_ at the time. Not anymore.” Her breath rushed out in a choked, hysterical laugh. Finstock watched her chest seize as she fought the instinct to suck in more air than she needed. “Would it help if you could see me?” 

Kira’s eyes widened and her shoulders fell another three inches. Finstock pumped his fist in victory. 

“Yeah. Yeah, if you, uh, don’t mind.” 

Finstock snorted.

“I don’t mind. Just give me a second.” It was a little embarrassing, he had to admit, having to sit back and _concentrate_ on remembering what he looked like. Of course he could catch her on the fly no problem, but now that he actually had to do something on purpose… if Finstock still had blood, guts, skin, all the living gooey bits, he’d be red in the face. After a few silent, tense moments, Kira’s eyes shifted to actually _meet_ Finstock’s gaze. Her mouth fell open and she went slack, like the strings holding her up had been cut. Finstock waved from his crouched position a few feet away. “Hi.”

“H-Hi.” Kira blinked. “Okay _wow_ , hi. Hello. Um.” Finstock enjoyed watching the color return to her face in full force, until it was pink. “This is so weird. Like… I’m sorry I’m in your house, but I, uh— didn’t know you were here.” 

He laughed and was glad that he remembered how to, the rasp of his voice familiar to his own ears. 

“It’s no problem.” 

Kira gently let her body unfold from the tight ball she’d kept it in, rubbing her legs. She leaned against the drawers and paused. 

“Oh… oh wait, you’ve been here the whole time— oh _God_ —” 

“I don’t,” Finstock felt flustered for the first time in his existence. It figured that he had to die to feel some sort of humility. “I don’t go into your bedroom or the bathroom.” He winced at how dirty the words felt in his mouth. “I know like, words mean shit, but I promise, just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m completely fucking deplorable. Even the dead gotta have standards.” 

Kira snorted, her hands falling from her face. 

“Fair enough.” Her smile lost it’s hysteric edge, and when the worry lines faded from her face Finstock finally let himself relax. “If you’re a hallucination from a nervous break or something… I’ve got to say,” Kira’s eyes swept over him and Finstock wondered what she saw, what details she focused on to remember, “this is weirdly specific.” 

“Here,” Finstock held out his hand, “hold out your hand. I’ll touch it.” 

He’d always operated under the _if I can see it, if I can touch it, then it’s real_. Kira swallowed, then nodded. Oddly, Finstock felt like he was a kid again, where the world was simpler… when friendships were formed with pinky-swears and shared imagination. He kept his hand in the air and it felt like a dare. 

Kira extended her hand, hand turned over and her palm facing the ceiling. The refrigerator hummed and a breeze serenely blew through the windows. Finstock concentrated and brought his index and middle finger down onto the center of her palm. 

He felt her, in a dull, removed way. It was like he was by a fire but felt the heat through thick blankets. Finstock might be dead, but he knew that what he felt wasn’t what the living felt. But still, he saw Kira’s shoulders jump. 

“Wow.” She pressed her palm up and she grinned when she touched him. Her eyes met his and Finstock wondered what he felt like. “I’m Kira Yukimura, it’s nice to meet you.” 

_Nice to meet you_ was something Finstock never meant when he was alive. It was a throw-away phrase, something to soften whatever followed. It was empty, and certainly he didn’t recall anyone saying it so sincerely. He flicked her hand and relished in how her breath stuttered. 

“The pleasure is all mine.” 

He bowed, over the top and lavish with a hand twirl at the end. Kira laughed, full and loud. 

::::

The King’s Head was the one bar in downtown that Peter could stand for more than fifteen minutes. It was the perfect mix of hushed contemporary blended with a false nostalgia for a past that never existed. The servers were sleek and dressed in black with holsters that kept their moleskin pads for taking orders. The furniture was heavily stained wood that was thick and heavy. Lanterns lined the walls and the bulbs that hung from the ceiling were long and thin. The overall architecture was German, from the height of the ceilings to the outer design. 

It had no place in Beacon Hills and yet it was one of the more popular bars. It was the kind of hypocrisy that Peter could get behind. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Kira hurried in, draping her bag on the free chair by their table. “I lost track of time, and I swear I kept forgetting little things every time I went to the door.” She shook her head. “Ridiculous.” 

“You’re barely fifteen minutes late, don’t worry about— what happened to your hand?” 

Peter gently ran his fingers over the white gauze that covered Kira’s right hand. Kira smiled though it was the kind of smile that did nothing to alleviate Peter’s concern. 

“Cooking accident. I wasn’t paying attention and my big cooking pot fell off the shelf and onto my hand.” Peter hissed with sympathy. “It’s not that bad,” Kira withdrew her hand and he noticed how gingerly she held it. “Nothing is broken. It’s just bruised.” 

“Still,” Peter waved his hand to signal the waiter, “nothing some decent wine won’t fix.” 

Kira Yukimura was nothing like her father… and frankly it was refreshing. Ken was reserved, caring, and had a candid-awkwardness that was as sweet as it was endearing. Peter’s first words to Ken was “Jesus, if you’re not being genuine, then you’re one of the best sociopaths I’ve ever met.” 

Ken had squeezed Peter’s shoulder with a twinkling smile, because that was just the kind of man he was. 

They spread out their tests to grade across the table and Kira struggled to grip her pen in her left hand. Where Ken was assuring in his warmth and attention, Peter noticed that Kira was more detached, and not just with her students. Peter wasn’t the warmest of people, but over the course of the years people admitted he was charming even if he was _a total asshole_. Kira never fell for any smile, innuendo, or extravagant flourish that worked with so many others. She remained in his company, but was distinctly separate. Her posture was straight, just shy of military strictness. 

She held her pencap between her teeth, her eyes scanning over the rubric when she noticed Peter’s gaze. 

“What?” She looked down. “I didn’t spill wine on myself, did I?”

“No.” Peter rested his head on his hands, bouncing his foot idly on the floor. “Just thinking. You’re not a lot like your father, I’ve noticed.” 

Kira put her pen down and the resulting frown was, like a lot of things about Kira, distant. As if the pain itself was old. 

“I know.” She took a long sip of wine, wincing as she swallowed. “I’m not a lot like my mother either.” 

Peter had only met Noshiko a few times in passing, but it was enough to know that Kira was accurate in her self-assessment. He nudged her toe with his foot. 

“True,” he smiled, “but I like you as you are anyway.” 

Kira’s smile was a reward, he realized, after receiving so many that were just enough to placate the pallet. This smile was different, crooked and shocked, not one that was constructed, but a simple manifestation of happy surprise. She fiddled with her right hand, picking at frayed threads from the gauze. 

“Thanks for the high praise.” 

Peter had something witty planned but it was over the moment the door to the King’s Head swung open. Peter wasn’t one to be struck speechless, but in that moment all neurons in his brain failed him. 

A young man walked through the door. He was bundled up in a coat too heavy for California weather. The tip of his nose was pink and when his eyes swept the bar Peter couldn’t help but shiver. If the man was looking for someone, he didn’t find them… and a disgustingly romantic part of Peter wanted the man to be looking for _him_. Kira noticed his shift in focus. She leaned back in her chair and followed his gaze. 

Within moments a woman also came through the door, her shoulders considerably tighter than her companion. 

They walked in sync and when the man sat at the bar, the woman joined him but immediately turned her back to the bar, her eyes studying the rest of the building with a faux indifference. 

“You should buy them a drink.” 

Peter whipped his head around to glare at Kira. 

_“No.”_ He didn’t shrink under her raised eyebrow. “Kira, I’m in a cardigan that says _I’m teacher of the year_ , not _I’m going to suck your dick until you can’t remember your own name._ ” 

Kira snortend and kicked his chair’s leg. 

“Pussy.” 

A loud, unflattering laugh was startled out of Peter. He kicked at her shoes until they were both nudging each other like children, bubbling over with laughter until the bartender cleared his throat. Peter hushed himself and Kira ducked her head down, gripping her glass of wine hard to keep it from tipping over. 

They quieted down, their shoulders jumping from restrained, intoxicated mirth. Kira wiped her eyes with the back of her left hand, the fingers of her right twitching against her wine glass. 

“Hey,” her breaths were shallow and she struggled to even them out, “weird question, but do you have any great recipes, like… ones that you wear by?” 

Peter hummed. 

“Depends. Are you looking for a meal to eat alone… or something to impress someone?” 

Kira went back to picking at her bandages and Peter grinned as she slid down in her chair, her perfect posture breaking. 

“Something… to impress.” 

He grinned, gloating even though he didn’t have a leg to stand on. 

“You’ve come to the right person.” 

He snatched a piece of paper from Kira’s notebook and got to writing. When they left they were pleasantly buzzed. Kira had Peter’s recipe tucked away in her bag. He held open the door and when he glanced toward the bar, he saw that the young man who’d entered was turned around. Their eyes met. 

Peter smiled with a wink, before he followed Kira out into the crisp autumn air. 

::::

Kira knew the following things about Bobby:

He had crazy hair. When he laughed, especially when Kira _surprised_ him with something she said that made him laugh, the lights would flicker. She could tell when he was in the room, little things like how the shadows would flicker like candlelight or just the fact that she felt… _lighter_ , the same kind of light-hearted feeling after laughing with a group of friends. He liked _Harold and Maude_. He didn’t like to admit it, but old romantic music was his favorite. When he was happy the air would get warmer and… even if Kira couldn’t see him, she’d get that feeling that she was _sharing_ a smile with someone. He didn’t tell her when or how he died, but judging by the fact that he hadn’t heard of _Star Wars_ and his use of the word “groovy,” he must have died in the mid 1970s. 

“Okay,” Bobby’s voice was crystal clear in comparison to the first time they spoke. Kira shook her head at the fake _serious talk_ tone he had a habit of taking before a punchline. “I’m ready. I’m ready to tell you,” he mimicked the sound of breath hitching, “I’m ready tell you how I died.”

“Yeah?” Kira heated up some tomato soup, in the mood for something comfortable and easy. She stirred it idly before turning toward his voice. “All right. I’m here,” she copied his fake sincerity. “I support you, Bobby.” 

His laughter was like a song, with rolling crescendos and melodies. The lights pulsed until he stopped. 

“My name was Robert. I was an orphan and the nuns hated my liberal use of profanity. They washed my mouth out, day after day, until I threw up suds. After seven days, the time-out room was filled with bubbles, and I had passed on.” 

Kira snorted. 

“You’re so full of shit.” 

“Sure, but it’s a part of my charm.” 

Bobby said he didn’t know all the rules about being dead and Kira believed him. They had fun figuring out the laughter and lights correlation. Kira sipped the soup. 

“Needs more pepper.” 

She turned and sure enough, the shaker was on the far end of the counter.

“I got it,” she heard Bobby’s voice tighten as he moved. 

The shaker jiggled. Kira shook her head, stepping toward it as she put down the spoon. 

“Don’t worry about it, keep telling me about your times as an or—” She reached for the shaker and suddenly everything went cold and dark, like she’d been plunged under a sea of blankets. “—phan.” 

It was her voice but it _wasn’t her voice_. Her right hand gripped the salt shaker _but it wasn’t her hand_. She could see out of her eyes, but when she blinked, _she wasn’t the one to blink them_. She couldn’t move and she couldn’t _breathe_ — 

Air filled her lungs but Kira wasn’t the one to take a breath. Thoughts that were not hers screamed across her mind in an unfiltered deluge. 

_—tomato tastes so good, everything is so warm, soft hands, don’t forget to breathe, I forgot what_ breathing _was like oh wow, the air tastes so fresh, how did I get in here, how do I get out—_

Get out. Get OUT. The words were clear in Kira’s mind and she latched onto them, roared them until they were the only words, the only _command_ she knew. Her mind spiraled into hysteria, her fingers tightening around the pepper shaker. She vaguely felt a lesser panic that was not hers, one that was tinged with regret and frantic apologies, but she didn’t care, fear drove her. She concentrated on her right hand, on its grip, she kept screaming for control until— 

Her hand flung itself into the the cabinets— once, _twice_ — and the flare of pain dragged her back into her body. The moment she had total control of her body her knees buckled. She fell to the floor and cradled her hand close to her chest, dragging air into her lungs like she run a marathon. Her heart pounded and cold sweat broke out over her skin, soaking through her shirt and sticking between her thighs. 

The lights brightened and everything was cold… 

_Bobby is upset_ , Kira thought and somehow that was the small piece of reality she needed to ground herself. Kira wiped tears from her eyes only to hiss at the harsh _throb_ from her right hand. The room grew colder and when Kira focused she _saw_ Bobby, though his figure was fuzzy around the edges, like smudged bits of soot had clung to his silhouette.

He darted out of the room, in a flicker, and when he returned he had Kira’s first aid kit that she kept under the sink in the bathroom. She could see her breath and when he touched her hand she flinched. The temperature dropped further. Her heartbeat slowed and finally she realized he was talking as he gently wiped over the blooming bruises with ointment. She saw the way his brow furrowed deeply, his expression severe whenever he had to concentrate on being more… _physically present_. Her breath puffed between them and it was only when he started to wrap her hand in gauze that she realized he was speaking. 

“— one minute I was going for the pepper and the next I was…” He paused. Kira wanted to laugh because there was no polite way to say _I was inside of you_. He gently tied the gauze over the soft dip between her index finger and thumb. “I felt how scared you were. I… I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” Kira shivered, her breath so white in front of her. She reached out and when she touched his shoulder it felt like vibrating cold air. She squeezed as best she could, hoping he felt reassured. “I felt you too,” she tapped her temple with her left hand. “I felt you reacting to what I felt, it was… it was terrifying, but I know you didn’t mean it.” She nudged him, as much as she could without her hand falling through him. “What else did you feel?”

It turned out there was a lot to learn about being dead. Kira had always figured that if there was an afterlife, all questions would suddenly be made clear. Bobby insisted that was certainly _not_ the case. 

Her right hand healed. Classes had gained their own rhythm and Kira was prepping her students for their first big test. Her father peered down at her study guide, his glasses sliding down his nose. 

“This looks very good, firebug.” 

“It does?” Kira smiled and kissed her father on the cheek. “I just don’t want to let your students have it too easy during your absence. They miss you.” 

Ken ducked his head. 

“You’re a fine substitute.” Kira tucked her guide into her messenger bag. Her father walked her to her car. He spotted a bag of groceries in her passenger’s seat and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Having someone over for dinner?” 

Kira shrugged, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. 

“No.” She cleared her throat. “Not exactly.” 

Her father chuckled knowingly even though she _wasn’t_ having dinner with anyone. Technically, she lived alone and she had no plans to have visitors that night.

She had a test to go over and papers to grade… but instead she thinly sliced garlic and onions. Peter’s recipe was taped to the cabinet by the stove and she Earth, Wind, and Fire played in the living room. 

“Is someone coming over?” 

Bobby’s voice came from just over her shoulder. She shook her head. 

“No, and quit being nosy. It’s a surprise.” 

Bobby snorted, loud and dramatic. 

“I’m _dead_ , it’s not like there are a lot of surprises left.” 

Kira worked quickly, following the directions to the letter. She carefully prepared a plate of spaghetti with slowly simmered tomato sauce with thyme. Bits of mozzarella had been stirred in with the noodles with grated parmesan on the side. When she sat down she felt Bobby’s attention leave the music and focus on her. 

“Bobby?” She heard him hum, the chair with the uneven leg squeaked. She smoothed out her shirt and skirt. “I made this for you.” 

The shadows flickered and for a moment, Kira could see him, the confused curl of his lips and his big eyes studying her from across the table. 

“It’ll fall right out of my mouth and all over your nice table.” 

Kira smiled. 

“It won’t if you’re eating it with my mouth.” Bobby's form vanished right after his eyes widened. The air chilled, but not as dramatically as last time. “It was scary the first time, but I remember how excited you were at the taste of soup.” 

The air got warmer. She felt fingers bump gently against her knuckles. 

“Are you sure?” Usually his voice was hoarse and blown out, as if he’d cackled his way into the afterlife. “I have no idea how it works.” 

“Neither do I, so we’ll figure it out. Just,” Kira turned her hand over and felt his palms press against hers, “go slow, all right?” 

“Slow.” He was closer, his hand pressed through hers and cold air tickled across her cheek. “I can go slow—” 

It was like being eased into warm, fluffy blankets after a long day. She expected to be taken over, not to be taken by the hand to _share_ the experience. She felt as though if her body were a car, she had simply moved to the backseat. Suddenly every sensation she took for granted as a boring day-to-day experience was special, was shining and new. 

“— Kira.” Kira’s voice said the word, but the muscles and tones used were not hers. Bobby looked down with Kira’s eyes, to her the food, to her hands, to the kitchen. To all the surroundings that were ordinary to Kira, but to Bobby they were… “You just let me know,” Kira’s lips moved around the words but it was all Bobby, the smirk and crooked grin, “when this gets to be too much for you, okay?” 

Kira nodded and felt her head move with her desire. Bobby reached for a fork and twirled it in the pasta. Her heart raced with his anticipation and she was awash in warm gratitude moments before the fork slipped past her lips.

It wasn’t just _food_ , the way it would have been if it had been Kira eating it. It was flavors that Bobby had _forgotten_ about, the way he could taste the butter, the thyme, the rich tomatoes until he could hardly see, the flavors were brilliant and he felt… he felt _alive_ , more so than he had when he _was_ alive. He quickly shoveled another mouthful in, greedy for more. Kira was dizzy, the overwhelming sensation that accompanied eating, the breathing, the need for something to drink, the feel of _clothes_ against her skin. 

Bobby wiped his mouth with the back of Kira’s hand. He blinked rapidly and they both realized that tears had streaked down Kira’s cheeks. 

“Kira,” Bobby spoke with Kira’s voice, his voice hoarse as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I can’t… this is…” 

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. Kira felt it in her chest, the tight ball of _wonder-appreciation-wistful-delight-adoration_ that bloomed between them. He got up and her legs shook as Bobby remembered what it was like to physically walk. His first few steps stumbled, but the rest were confident. He spun in Kira’s body, laughing like a maniac and when he stopped he touched her cheeks and neck. 

“You’re so warm.” 

He breathed in deep and let his fingers trail down her neck to chase the air, to really feel how it _filled him_. Goosebumps rose on Kira’s skin and she didn’t know if Bobby either didn’t feel them or didn’t notice them, too caught up in the rest of his experience. She hadn’t noticed just how vivid the world was, it wasn’t until Bobby focused on the lingering taste of pasta in her mouth, how her hands felt against her shoulders, how her body swayed to the music… it had never struck Kira as anything other than ordinary. 

To Bobby… it was beautiful. 

“Kira,” he moved her mouth around his words, his expressions using her muscles in a way that Kira wasn’t used to. He took a deep breath, so deep that she had to lean her shoulder against the wall to keep herself upright. He tilted her head back and he pressed her fingers along her cheeks. “ _Kira_ , this is,” her voice cracked, “this is the nicest thing anyone has done for me.” 

Her left hand trembled. Kira gently took her right hand and laid it over the left. Bobby flipped her left hand over and his fingers tickled the inside of her right wrist. 

“Well, we’re friends.” Kira squeezed her left wrist and felt her pulse jump. “Next time,” and there was no mistaking the euphoric song of _next time_ that echoed in her heartbeat, “I’ll set something else up. Food or… whatever we think of.” 

Bobby pulled their hands apart. Kira’s left hand was lifted to cup her cheek. Bobby moved his thumb along her cheekbone and Kira didn’t know whether it was her breath that caught, or his.

“I can’t wait.”


	2. Shared Between One Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he shared her heartbeat, her breath… he had the terrible thought that maybe it had been worth dying if it meant he could experience _this_ , experience _her_.

Allison woke to the _sh-sh-sh_ of the shower. 

She sat up, easily slipping from being asleep to awake and alert with ease. Her father said that when she was little, she used to sleep through anything short of water being poured on her. She wondered when that had changed, if it was her joining the military… or if it was something deeper, preparing her for waking up at the crack of dawn without an alarm. She stretched and shuffled past Stiles’s gym bags on the floor and knocked on the bathroom door. 

“Morning. Did I wake you up?” 

Stiles’s voice was bright, he always put extra energy behind it in the morning. Lately, it was cracked around the edges. No one noticed except Allison, how frayed he had become, how every smile and laugh was too close to screaming. 

“No. I always get up early.” Allison lingered. “Do you need any help?”

The key to getting Stiles to accept an extra pair of hands was to act dismissive, like she didn’t care either way. The shower turned off and she heard him grab a towel. His exhales were harsh because it was always biting cold after being exposed to so much heat. She heard toilet seat cover clatter just before Stiles sighed. 

“Yeah. If you don’t mind.” 

Allison opened the door and a plume of steam flowed over the cheap motel tiles and onto the carpet of the ratty bedroom. Stiles had his towel wrapped around his waist and he sat with his back turned. His shoulders quivered. They always did. 

It had been months and the burns had mostly healed… but they weren’t all the way there yet. Long stretches of grey and angry red skin framed every laceration and burn. Allison opened their med-kit and went to work without saying a word, her one hand steadying Stiles and the other washing over his wounds. It could have been a meditative exercise if Allison hadn’t witnessed just how he’d gotten those burns… and if she hadn’t been the one to ignite the flame. 

“They’re looking better. Do they feel better?” Stiles shrugged, which meant _no_. She saw him clenching and unclenching his fists, then twiddling his fingers one by one. He’d finished physical therapy but he kept up with the exercises. “I’ll start the drive. And I’m just saying it right now,” Allison finished fastening the gauze and tapped Stiles’s shoulder. “If I have to eat at another Denny’s, I’ll scream.” 

They checked out early and were on the road as the sun broke out across the sandy hills. 

Technically Special Agent Stiles Stilinski was still on medical leave, and _technically_ Special Agent Allison Argent was keeping him briefed on agency events. At least, that was their purpose was on paper. 

Really, they just needed space and time to breathe after going up against something they weren’t ready for.

“Welcome,” Stiles had his window all the way down and he closed his eyes as the wind washed over his face, “to Beacon Hills.” 

Allison hadn’t grown up in a small town. She watched with detached amusement when Stiles lit up, straightening in his seat when he was finally in a place he recognized. _Like the back of my hand_ , was the popular saying. He pointed to buildings, weird trees or broken down posts that he claimed were landmarks, and for the first time in months there was color in his cheeks. 

The trees were green and thick, the roads winding and endless, that Allison felt as though she were in a dream when they finally parked in a gravel driveway. Their boots creaked on the wooden porch and Stiles only had to knock twice before the door opened. 

An older man stood, dressed in a neatly pressed Sheriff’s uniform. Allison’s first thought about him was _he has kind eyes_. He pulled Stiles into a hug that made them both groan from the pressure of it, though when Stiles hissed when his father pressed too hard on his wounds, he was immediately released. 

“Jesus.” The man shuddered. “ _Jesus_. It’s good to see you, Stiles.” He took Allison’s bag out of her hands and her heart twisted because it was such a _dad_ thing to do. He slung her bag over his shoulder and used his free hand to shake hers. “I’m Noah Stilinski.” 

“Allison Argent.” 

Noah’s eyes wrinkled at the sides as his smile widened.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Allison.” 

He welcomed her inside without so much as a pat-down or a second glance. It was baffling and she felt unbalanced when she closed the door behind her and followed them inside. Stiles and his father filled the kitchen naturally. Allison leaned in the doorway and she heard the benign conversation thin into tense silence. 

She knew that Stiles would want to go home after everything that happened. It made sense, everyone needed a familiar space to lick their wounds and recover. _I don’t know if this will be enough_ , Allison thought when the hysteria bubbled up, _what if nothing is enough?_

“So,” Noah’s eyes darted from Allison to Stiles, to their military-tense posture. “What _can_ you tell me, Stiles?” 

“Not much.” Stiles’s eyelids flickered and he picked at his sweatshirt’s sleeve. “I’ve been treated for and am recovering from third degree burns. My bandages need to be changed three to four times a day. I’ll… most likely be experiencing Post-Traumatic Stress but I’ll be working to get rid of _that_ as soon as possible.” Stiles winked like he was talking about getting over the common cold. “I’m on paid leave.” 

Allison watched as a tsunami of questions gathered on Noah’s tongue that he was forced to bitterly swallow. He nodded, his fingers dragging down over his mouth with such pressure that they left streaks of white behind. 

“All right.” He gripped Stiles’s shoulder and Allison knew that Stiles hid the pain that it caused him. “Stay as long as you need. Allison,” she straightened her shoulders when Noah directed his attention to her, “you’re welcome in our home. Our couch pulls out, Stiles knows where the fresh sheets are. I have to run to the station, but please make yourself at home.” 

With a quick hug and a kiss to Stiles’s forehead, he was gone. Allison grabbed her bag as Stiles slipped out of the kitchen. 

“Unpack,” he hurried up the stairs, “and I’ll give you a tour of town.”

::::

“Okay I’m going to ask a question and I need you to not get emotional about it.” Stiles turned, leaning on his trusty Jeep. Allison took a deep breath and continued. “Why does Beacon Hills give a modicum of a shit about lacrosse?” 

Laughing hurt as much as it healed. It made his lungs shudder, his eyes burn, and his back stretch in uncomfortable ways as he threw his head back and slugged Allison in the shoulder, bending over to really shake his mirth loose. He was sure that Allison saw Beacon Hills like Twin Peaks, a weird town full of weirder people. He shook his head and held out his arm. Allison looped hers through and he led her out of the high school parking lot and to the lacrosse field. 

It was a Friday which meant it was _Lacrosse Night_. Stiles walked into the crowd and it was like he was anyone else. He wore a thick coat and he’d just changed his bandages… it was easy to pretend he was normal. 

“My dad could probably explain it better than me. It’s our _thing_ , you know? Like New York City has Times Square, DC has the White House, and Beacon Hills has lacrosse.” 

Allison laughed and Stiles laughed with her. His burns hurt less if he leaned on her. The dull roar of the crowd washed away the emptiness inside of him, the awful feeling that he was missing pieces of himself.

_Maybe the pieces were never there. Nothing felt right. Not until that thing was inside of you._

Stiles swallowed sticky, salty saliva and rubbed his arms even though he wasn’t cold. Allison was the perfect partner for this, she was raised to work in the FBI and she knew the bureaucratic song and dance better than anyone. His chest tightened every morning when she’d be awake and ready to change his bandages without question, or if he shouted in his sleep she’d ease him out of it with gentle words and touches without judgement. 

They’d been each other’s anchor when they’d both been stuck in the basement of the FBI given joke cases, and then they remained partners when they proved that supernatural beings were, indeed, real. Suddenly their assignments stopped being cynical hand-downs from their superiors to tense files from cold cases. Everything had been so fast, and so because Stiles and Allison were at the start of _everything_. Their budget increased and they had teams and… 

They thought they knew what they were doing. Stiles clenched his fists in his hoodie’s pockets and struggled to immerse himself into the pre-game chatter and excitement. But he was _so cold_ and _so empty_. They thought they knew what they were dealing with… and they’d gotten cocky. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. There was nothing Stiles or Allison could have done… because nothing could prepare them for—

_Nogitsune._

Allison’s hands were so warm compared to the rest of him. Her fingers tapped on Stiles’s wrist and though the contact was brief, the warmth was enough to ease Stiles’s clenched teeth. He was pulled out from the hollow depths inside himself and was back at the game. If Allison noticed Stiles’s slip, she didn’t comment on it. 

“That guy from the bar is here.” Her lips curled like smoke in cold air. “And he’s checking you out. Again.” 

She tapped his wrist four times. _Four o’clock_. Stiles turned and sure enough, the handsome man from the day before there, looking straight ahead with a tense jaw. He was alone, dressed in a nice sweater. His body language was good, a disinterest in everything including the game was what was mostly broadcast… but it was his twitching fingers that gave him away, the way his ears were red at the tips. Stiles’s back throbbed but he needed to _get over it_. He needed to remember what reality was. 

“Want to be my wingman?”

“Absolutely.” 

Being possessed by a creature over a thousand years old could make _flirting_ a lot less scary. He kept his shoulders low and slack, his back relaxed as he sat next to the man. Allison sat beside him and Stiles nudged the man gently with his elbow. 

“I think I saw you at The King’s Head.” The man turned, as if he hadn’t been sneaking glances at Stiles for the past twenty minutes. His smile was charming and Stiles held out his hand. “Stiles Stilinski. This is my friend Allison Argent.” 

He had a good handshake.

“Peter Hale.” He reached over to shake Allison’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.” 

Sitles glanced at the empty bench beside Peter. 

“Are you here alone?” 

“Actually,” Peter pointed to the field, where the coach, it was _still_ old-man Harris, and a new assistant coach talked to the players. And the assistant coach was familiar. “I’m here for her. It’s the first game and she’s the new assistant coach. I thought I’d show support.” Peter shrugged, his movements elegant and fluid. “To be honest, I don’t really care about lacrosse.” 

Stiles’s jaw dropped. 

“You can’t be from here then.” Peter laughed, a dark, rumbling chuckle that chased the ache away from his wounds. Allison snorted. Stiles shook his head. “You are both disgraces. Come on, I was born and raised here, I’ll get you up to speed.”

Stiles had to grow into his charm. Allison was way better at faking it than him, and she said that the key was when Stiles really cared about something, really enjoyed it… it was evident in his face. She said he’d light up. And there was a small part of him that was terrified to speak because _what if he felt nothing?_ What if he talked about lacrosse, something he used to love, and felt _nothing?_

The first few words stumbled, but once he got started he couldn’t stop. Rules, strategy, and his own experiences from playing in high school were easily conjured. Allison would laugh at the right beats, God bless her, and Peter…

Peter’s hand was on his knee, his eyes were bright and they only left Stiles when Stiles pointed to the field. He listened, he laughed, and by the end he was wiping his eyes, leaning a little on Stiles’s shoulder. It hurt, it pulled his wounds under the bandages but Stiles didn’t mind. 

“You know, apparently lacrosse really became big because of some coach in the sixties and seventies. He was real nutty. My dad said you could hear him yelling for miles but… I mean that can’t be right, can it?” 

“Come on!” The assistant coach, Kira, shouted with a timber sounded like it strained her vocal chords. “This isn’t practice, this is _war!_ You need to scare them, _scare them to death—”_

Peter, Allison, and Stiles were on the edge of their seats and when Beacon Hills scored the final winning goal, they all jumped up and cheered. The crowd rushed to either meet their kids or linger, and Stiles watched Peter hesitate, his eyes flickering from him to the assistant coach. 

“I’d love to introduce you. Maybe we could all get coffee or something?” 

Stiles turned to Allison who already grinning.

“Sounds great.” 

Peter smiled and his hand drifted down Stiles’s back. 

“Perfect.” 

They stepped down the bleachers, Allison feigning that she needed a steady hand from him, when really she was helping him find his balance. Stiles’s back stung but he was sure he had at least an hour left in him. He fell back a few steps behind Peter. Allison bumped her shoulder against his when Peter opened a gate for them to step through and get onto the field. The team and coach were heading inside, but the assistant coach remained on the bench, arms spread wide along the back and her legs sprawled out. Her chest heaved and Stiles saw she was sweating so much that heat was rising in clouds from her skin. 

She tilted her head to the side and saluted, her grin crooked. Peter jogged up to her and when they high-fived Stiles winced at how their skin _cracked_ when they came together. 

“Good game, Kira.” 

“Why thank you, Peter.” 

Stiles remebered thinking that her pose was very… old school masculine, like he was looking at a vintage photo of Burt Reynolds smoking a cigar. It had been a passing thought, nothing that struck Stiles as important. 

“Kira, this is Stiles and his friend Allison.” 

“Right,” Kira drawled the word out and shook Stiles’s hand, her other hand coming to seal her grip. She winked. “I remember, from The King’s Head. Nice to meet you.” She had a strong grip, a tad punishing and her smile was wide. “Hope you had fun at the game.”

“I did. Most of it was explaining to these dweebs the appeal of lacrosse.” 

Kira laughed and her voice was already hoarse, no doubt from the screams she’d let loose on the field. 

“It’s an acquired taste, though one everyone should appreciate.” 

Peter shifted his weight from foot to foot, barely noticeable but everything was noticed to Stiles. Even as Peter’s voice remained calm and charming, there was that undercurrent of anxiety that made Stiles inwardly preen. 

“We were thinking of going out for coffee, are you up to it?” 

“Yeah.” Kira shuddered, the last bits of adrenalin easing out of her system. She covered her face with her hands and breathed deep, and when she took her hands away her face had drastically softened, her smile more even and calm. “I will definitely need coffee if you don’t want me falling asleep on you.” She held out her hands to Peter. “Help me up, my legs are like jelly right now.” 

Kira Yukimura was also a teacher at Beacon Hills High School, though her status was temporary. She walked to the parking lot with her arms slung around Peter and Allison’s shoulders. Her knees wobbled when she dug around her purse for her keys but by the time they’d all met up at Ed’s Diner, she walked steady. 

When Stiles sat in the booth his bandages clung desperately to his wounds. He shifted, uncomfortable, and he knew Allison caught his momentary discomfort. Stiles and Allison sat on one side, Peter and Kira on the other. Stiles quickly realized that Kira was playing the same game as Allison, every story she told about Peter was humorous and flattering. Just as he was going to laugh, his cell phone rang. 

They all fell silent. The number was withheld, which meant it was a work call. Stiles cleared his throat. 

“Sorry,” he awkwardly slid out of the booth. “I have to take this.” 

Every step across the diner’s tiles was an eternity. He went out into the cold night, and pressed his phone to his ear. He knew, deep down, why he was being called while on leave. Deep down, he knew that the emptiness inside of him was _yearning_ , that his hollowed center was calling out. Inevitably, it would be answered. 

_“Special Agent Stilinski,”_ his supervisor sighed over the line, weary and mourning. Stiles closed his eyes. _“I’m sorry to interrupt your leave. You know I wouldn’t unless it was an absolute emergency.”_

“Yeah.” Stiles’s back burned and he was so _tired_. “Yeah, I know.” 

He met Allison’s eyes through the window. There was something on the wind, a thrall that Stiles couldn’t shake, no matter how much he shuddered. He gestured clumsily. He watched her make an excuse, he watched Peter’s face fall, Kira’s brows knit in confusion. Allison gathered her things, shook their hands, and was hurrying out of the door as their supervisor’s voice echoed in Stiles’s brain like hymns at a funeral. 

_It’s followed you from Japan. Livestock in the towns you’ve stopped in have started dying._

Allison’s hands were hot on his cold, _so cold_ , face.

“Stiles,” her breath was warm on his cheek as she pulled him into a tight embrace, her heartbeat a steady guide to come back up from under the ice. “Stiles, what is it?” 

He could hear pleading with him, the _please let it be another reality break_. Because a panic attack, a moment of hysteria was a human problem. It was something she could handle. Stiles wished it for her, because Allison hadn’t known what she’d be getting into… just the same way Stiles hadn’t. His shoulders shuddered and he clung to her as the gaping maw inside of him tried to swallow him whole. 

_The Nogitsune is coming for you._

::::

Finstock never had visitors when he’d been alive. He knew he lived like a sloppy bachelor, cleaning the bare minimum, speaking the bare minimum. Lacrosse had been his passion but people… people had always left him wanting _more_ from them until he’d simply stopped. He stopped wishing for the town to lighten up, for folks to get an open mind, for his peers to _grow a decent sense of humor._

The kids at the school had called him crazy. The adults called him lonely. 

Living (ha!) with Kira was unlike anything Finstock could remember from when he was alive. He’d make her laugh instead of recoil, her nose would scrunch up as she giggled instead of turning away with entitlement. She was eager to learn all the rules about being dead that Finstock hadn’t bothered exploring. They tested movement, sensation, _possession_ , and Finstock almost couldn’t keep up. 

When he shared her heartbeat, her breath… he had the terrible thought that maybe it had been worth dying if it meant he could experience _this_ , experience _her_. 

“I should be asleep.” Kira whined, her eyes bleary when she rubbed them. “Why did I volunteer to host the history Halloween party?” 

“Because they asked you to draw from a hat,” Finstock kicked a marker over to her and Kira caught it with a beautiful smile, “and they only wrote your name on every slip of paper.” 

Kira scoffed. 

“They wouldn’t do that.” Finstock knew that the history teachers were a petty enough bunch to _absolutely_ do that. At least, they had been back when he was still breathing. Kira shook her head, cutting out more jack-o-lanterns. “You know, people aren’t always sarcastic assholes.” 

Every time she cursed, her lips twitched at the sides. She liked giving him a hard time, he could tell because her breaths would get shorter and her eyes would twinkle. Finstock smiled, feeling warm and weirdly heavy. He leaned against the bookshelf. 

“And people aren’t always sweet and generous.” 

Kira turned toward the shelf, one eyebrow raised. 

“Generous? I wouldn’t,” her cheeks were pink, her pajamas were loose, “I wouldn’t call myself generous.” 

“Who said I was talkin’ about you?” Her face broken into a grin and Finstock laughed. When they laughed together it was like champagne. He’d never cared for champagne, but when they laughed he suddenly thirsty for it. He whistled, though it sounded ridiculous because he couldn’t stop _laughing_. “Man, you’ve gotten quite the _ego_ on you, Kira. I don’t think there’s room enough for the both of— _**whoa!**_ ”

Within seconds the heaviness he felt became relentless and he was falling, _collapsing_ into the bookshelf. Books fell to the floor, and so did Finstock. He _fell_ with an actual _thud_. He flung his arm out to catch himself. Instead, his hand clumsily fumbled and the shelf fell on top of him shortly after he landed _hard_ on his back. 

“Oh God,” he heard Kira shout. Finstock blinked because he had _eyes_ to blink, he breathed because _he could_. He sat up, batting books off him and he met Kira’s wide eyes. “Bobby, what,” she sucked in a breath and he _felt it_ against his cheek, “what the fuck?”

Finstock had a _body_. He fumbled with the books around him when he realized he was naked, rushing to cover himself despite Kira already getting more than an eyeful. He swallowed and his throat clicked.

“You took the words right outta my mouth.” 

Kira was doing her damnedest to not look down. Her cheeks reddened but she maintained eye contact. 

“Why are you naked?” 

“I… I died naked. Maybe that’s why?” Finstock’s cheeks prickled with embarrassment he never let himself feel in life. “I didn’t exactly plan on this.” He risked moving his hand to press against his chest, where his heart would be. “Well, I’ve got no heartbeat so,” he cleared his throat, “that’s something.” 

“Here let me see if I have anything for you to wear,” Kira got up with renewed, flustered energy. “Just stay right there.” 

It wasn’t as if he could go anywhere. When Kira returned she was armed with sweatpants, the biggest shirt she owned, and a robe in case it all failed. As she turned around and Finstock grabbed the pants, he realized he’d never been in a situation like this, getting dressed while a girl’s back was turned. He snickered, pulling on the shirt that stretched awkwardly around his middle. 

“Christ, are you a size zero?” 

Finstock tugged at her shirt awkwardly. She turned and laughed behind her hands.

“It was the biggest one I could find, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to yourself. It’s not my eyes that are going to need bleach.” He couldn’t stop touching his stomach, his arms, his face. “This is weird,” he noticed how she hadn’t taken her eyes off him. “Is it weird for you?” 

“N-no. I mean, well, a little.” She bit her lip. “It’s just good to see you. Really see you.” If Finstock had a heartbeat he knew it would have skipped at that moment. She always had looked in the direction of his voice. He’d convinced himself it was enough, but now that she was really _looking_ … he wasn’t sure how he had ever settled for anything less. Her smile widened. “Can I hug you?”

“Yeah.” Finstock snorted. “You don’t have to ask—”

She launched herself at him, it was the only way to describe it. They came together with a soft _whump_. Her cheek was so warm and soft against his, he felt her smile and how it made her cheeks warm. It was just a hug, Finstock had given plenty of hugs in his lifetime. Hugs hadn’t been special when he was alive. 

Every thud of her heart against his chest was like the rush of the final moments of a close lacrosse game. Her skin was warm and _real_. Her arms tightened around him, holding him close, bringing herself as close as they could be without possession. 

“It’s just,” she laughed, it made her whole body tremble. Finstock kept his grip firm and Kira shook her head, her hair tickling his neck. “It’s so good to _see_ you, you know? Like really see you.” 

Finstock adjusted his grip, moving his hands to lift her higher. 

“It’s different than when I’m,” _inside of you_ he almost said. Finstock swallowed, his throat sticky. “This is nice.”

Eventually they had to seperate. Finstock might have been dead for decades, but he still knew that you couldn’t hug someone for hours at a time. It wasn’t the same as possession, it seemed more fair and Finstock wanted to linger, to feel more physical contact in all its forms. Kira released him and slid down to the floor, her smile wide. 

“You should shower, to remember what it feels like, I’ll make something in the meantime to see if you can taste it, and then we can see if there’s some department stores that’s twenty-four hours and we can get you clothes, or a costume for the party, did you want me to cancel the party—?”

The hot shower felt wonderful, the food tasted unreal, and Kira drove to a Wal-Mart two hours away because it was open the earliest. After they’d calmed down, Kira estimated that Finstock had become physical when it was midnight on Halloween, like he was living out the plotline of a cheesy kid’s movie. She yawned as they sat in the parking lot. Finstock elbowed her gently.

“You should sleep.” 

Kira rolled her eyes. 

“If this is the only day you get to be physically here I’m not going to waste time on _sleeping_.” She shook her head like Finstock was nuts. She said it so matter-of-fact, like there had never been another option. He made a noise, a weird guttural thing that sounded more animal than human. Kira looked up at him. “What’s up?” 

He slung his arm around her shoulders because, maybe only for today, he _could_. 

“You really are great, you know.” For once he didn’t lace his words with twisted humor. He let the sentiment exist in the early morning air. “You’re fucking incredible.” 

Her shoulders hunched inward, a slight slouch that happened when she didn’t believe something she heard. He’d seen it happen again and again, but this time he could physically pull her closer. This time he could smooth the tension out of her shoulders with his hands until she relaxed, until he could feel her smile against his shoulder. Her arm slid around his back and she pulled him closer. 

Periwinkle morning light crept above the horizon. A tired employee opened the doors with a sigh. Finstock watched Kira’s breath puff into the air between them and he smiled. 

::::

When Peter got to Kira’s house, he expected a few things. She’d asked for him to come despite him not teaching history, she said she needed the backup. Kira had no confidence in her party throwing abilities despite Peter insisting that all she needed was wine and a cheese platter for it to not be a failure. He expected the door to be opened, for her hands to grip his wrist as she hissed _save me_ , and for Peter to do his duty as a friend and come to her rescue. 

He didn’t expect to hear Earth Wind & Fire on full blast. 

The door swung open and a man that Peter had never seen filled the entrance, his eyes had _dark_ bags under them but his smile was so bright that Peter had to smile back. 

“Peter,” the man Peter had never met cheered as he pulled him into a tight hug, slapping him hard on the back, “glad you could make it.” 

He hugged Peter like they were old friends, familiar and warm. He pulled Peter inside and Peter stumbled, pulling back to fix his jacket. 

“Sorry,” Peter brushed himself off and the stranger was still smiling knowingly. “Do I know you?”

The man gave Peter a _look_ , like it was _Peter_ who was mistaken. Then his eyes widened, the _ah-ha_ moment and his smile turned sheepish. 

“Oh yeah. Sorry, Kira just talks about you a lot, it’s like I already met ‘ya.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bobby, Kira’s friend.” Peter took his hand and Bobby closed his other hand around their handshake like a politician, but the move didn’t feel slimy. His skin was calloused and when their hands separated Bobby winked. “Good to finally meet you.” 

The lights were dimmed, the music was loud, and the wine was plentiful. 

Kira was in the middle of a board game when she got up, hugging Peter tightly. 

 

“Sorry, I was in the middle of a round.” Her eyes twinkled like she hadn’t stopped smiling for hours. She squeezed his arms. “Thanks for coming.” 

“You,” Peter gently tapped her on the nose, “need to tell me about Bobby.” 

Her cheeks were pink as she said he was a friend from the city and that they talked on the phone a lot. _Bullshit_ , Peter remembered thinking. Because she hadn’t mentioned him to Peter, and during the night they kept touching each other, brief moments of contact to full embraces that would pull back until their arms were slung around each other’s waists. It was bullshit because of how he looked at her when Kira wasn’t looking. It would have been uncomfortable, if Kira wasn’t looking the exact same way when Bobby was in the middle of one of his stories. 

As he drank more wine and some of the faculty started leaving, it was just Peter, Kira, and Bobby shouting about movies and in the middle of his seventh glass of wine, Peter scrolled through his text messages, to one he had from Stiles, an apology for skipping out on their coffee from earlier in the month. 

“You should text him,” Kira leaned on Peter, her lips stained from wine and her voice hoarse from laughing. “Let him know on all the fun he missed out on tonight!” 

Peter was drunk enough to giggle, to roll his eyes and lean back against Kira. 

“It’s so unfair how cute he is, Kira.” 

“I know,” she nodded sagely, “I know, Peter.” 

Bobby snorted and his hand was on Kira’s knee, drawing circles on her stockings and Peter swallowed. 

“Fuck him. Come on, we’re taking a picture. Proof of the fun we had.” Peter turned on his phone’s camera and squeezed closer to Kira. She sat up and dragged Bobby closer, until his cheek was squashed against hers. Kira’s arm wove around Peter’s shoulders and he was drunk enough to get sentimental. “Thanks for,” Peter’s throat tightened around the words but he soldiered on, his hands wobbling a bit as the camera struggled to focus on their faces, “thanks for being a great friend, Kira. You’re all right too, Bobby.”

“Oh wow,” Bobby smirked, “someone add that to my fucking gravestone. _He was all right_.” He laughed and then they were all laughing. It wasn’t until much later that Peter realized just what Bobby had said. “All right, come on, let’s take this damn picture.” 

They squeezed together and Kira laughed mid-picture, Bobby’s grin blurred, and Peter looked great in the lighting. 

Bobby helped clean up, picking up glasses and red plastic cups idly and put on coffee as Kira walked Peter down the driveway. 

“He’s special to you.” Peter leaned on her shoulder, glad that his walk home was relatively short. “And don’t think I’m going to forget that you _didn’t tell me about him_.” He pinched Kira’s side and delighted in her squeal. “I’m going to get the _story_ out of you.” 

“Sure, sure,” Kira waved him off. “I’m glad you came, Peter.” 

With a final hug, she was gone and Peter was kicking at bits of gravel as he walked home. He idly opened the picture he took. He was still buzzed on wine and so he didn’t think twice about sending the picture to Stiles with a casual message: _We should see each other again._

It was just a fun picture, Peter thought. He got back to his house and kicked off his shoes before he drank as much water as he could stomach. He shrugged off his jacket and when he fell in bed he didn’t dream. 

When he woke up his head pounded and he had four new texts from Stiles. Peter pressed his hands to his eyes before he looked. 

_Oh, for sure._

_Sorry it’s been a crazy week, and that work call just threw a wrench in everything._

_We should definitely get dinner. How does next weekend sound?_

The last text were five grinning emojis. In his hungover state Peter grinned and typed a response. He didn’t think about the sudden enthusiasm, and he didn’t think about the picture that had prompted such a response. 

::::

It was ten minutes to midnight and Kira and Finstock were in her living room, on the floor. The lights were dimmed and exhaustion pulled at her, but she refused to sleep. How could she, when Bobby’s hands were present and around her waist, holding her close. She leaned her cheek on his shoulder. 

“That was fun,” she blew out a long breath. “Did you have fun?” 

He pulled her closer and she threw her leg over his, her arm around his waist. 

“Of course. I can’t… I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun at a party. Even if it was with a bunch of geeks.” Kira shoved him and he shoved her back, until it devolved into them scrabbling on the rug— until they were both laid out on their backs, Kira gasping for breath. The clock ticked on the wall. _It’s not fair_ , she wanted to say. She sniffed and she felt Bobby move, shifting so he could look at her and she turned away, hiding her face. “Hey, hey, no, don’t— Kira,” His hands were gentle on her back, one carding through her hair. “I had a fucking blast. And look at it this way,” he tugged on a lock of her hair. “Next year will be even better.” 

_Next year._

He said it easily but she heard the question. Kira sat up and wiped her eyes. 

“Yeah. Oh man, next year,” Kira grinned and Bobby grinned with her, “next year is going to be _unreal_.” 

The clock ticked and she hugged him tightly. He held her tight, until between breaths, Bobby went from being there, to simply _not_. Kira sagged forward, catching herself quickly. The lights flickered and she felt a familiar ghostly sensation of fingers carding through her hair. 

“Now, will you _please_ get some sleep?” 

When they laughed, the lights flickered and Kira didn’t cry. 

Whenever she let her mind wander, Kira found herself thinking ahead, to next Halloween and all the things they could do. How far could they drive in twenty-four hours? How much could she plan for? With a day as their limit, how far could they push it? Kira should have been thinking about lesson plans and constructing the next series of tests for her students, not daydreaming about—

_“He’s special to you.”_

Special. If there was a word for Bobby, special would be one of them, and at the same time it wasn’t enough. Special for his laughter, energy, and outrageous stories. The lingering excitement at every moment of contact, every joke, every time they shared her body whether it was to eat a meal or coach lacrosse… was unlike any thrill Kira had experienced. 

She knew what Bobby felt, because she got glimmers of it. She knew that their time sharing her body was changing, just as _he_ was aware because he saw, felt, and experienced everything that Kira did. It became something they _both_ felt, the creeping flush up their necks, the shortness of breath after every smile, and the slight tremble in their fingers when they’d touch bare skin. 

Weeks later, Kira slowly pulled on thigh-high stockings. Her hair was slightly damp from the shower she took despite her doing her best to keep it out of the water. She slid on simple black panties and opened her closet with a long, shaking exhale. Goose bumps raised on her arms as she pulled out a crushed black velvet dress. Al Green played in the living room and Kira wondered if Bobby had been able to tell where her mind was going… if the culmination of wandering fingers and shallow breaths were obvious. 

She _knew_ that there were… issues she could be addressing, in terms of control, whether or not the attraction was organic or just because Bobby liked the way Kira’s body translated sensation. Would it have been different if he’d used someone else? But all those questions circled and never ended, and Kira thought _fuck it_. 

Her footsteps were light against the wood. With a final glance in the mirror she left her room. 

The air was warmer and Kira felt the small hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. 

“You look nice.” Bobby’s voice was softer than she was used to, but still close, just by her right shoulder. A light breeze tickled the skin exposed by the plunging back. “Are we doing something special tonight?” 

“Uh, well,” Kira smiled through the buzzing _nervousness_ that was going wild in her stomach. “We’ve got a few options.” She held out her hand. “Come on. I want to… I want to feel you.” 

Bobby laughed, a dry chuckle that tickled the tips of Kira’s fingers. She felt a gentle pull forward, like Bobby was shaking her hand and then—

“Oh,” Kira’s lips curled around a smile that wasn’t hers, around surprise and chills down her spine that weren’t hers. Bobby filled her like champagne, bubbling and bright. He was _inside_ and his heart raced with hers, his breaths came short like hers, and his hands shook as he felt the crushed velvet material that covered Kira’s stomach. “You feel…” 

_Hot_ was a word that was shared between them, due to Kira’s flushed cheeks. Her skin prickled with hopeful anticipation, twinges of embarrassment, and the thrill of balancing on a precipice. Simmering heat crept up her spine as Bobby moved his fingers to her fluttering pulse on her neck. Kira tilted her head back and his fingers slipped with the motion, skimming down her collarbone and briefly brushing the swell of her breasts. 

_Jesus_ was an exclamation shard between their breaths. It was the kind of word she whimpered when he jerked her hands down, to bunch her dress nervously in her fingers. Her legs shook and her breaths were coming _hard_ in her chest. Kira was responsible for half of it, the rest came from Bobby. He moved until her back hit the wall. That was when he realized she hadn’t put on a bra. 

_Wet_ was the air puffing out of Kira’s lungs. It was the way her dress stuck to her body. _Wet_ was the feeling between her thighs. 

“Kira,” Bobby’s voice shook in her throat. Her left hand trembled. “Do you, really want to…” 

“ _Yes_.” Her own voice puffed into the air and Kira felt a little dizzy as Bobby retreated, her body returning to her briefly. She still felt him, tucked deep inside of her, but he still pushed the reigns into her grip. “I mean. If you want to, if,” Kira didn’t think she was wrong, all the lingering touches they’d shared. “If you don’t want to then we can just forget this and go out to dinner or something—” 

He rushed back, Kira’s control falling away like water. It was intoxicating, the immediate shift of her weight, the different muscles she used to smile so that it was Bobby’s sheepish grin. He brought her hands to frame her cheeks, his fingers gently brushing her hair from her face. His affection was like a warm bath, his lust tickled down her fingers, and when they smiled they smiled _together_. 

“I’m crazy about you.” Her voice rasped around his words. “I mean, I’m sure it was getting pretty obvious.” 

Kira slid her right hand over to her trembling left, twining their fingers together. 

“Maybe a little.” Her left hand tightened its grip and Bobby moved her thumb to rub along her inner wrist. It made her vision go hazy, her smile drunk and relaxed. “But I can’t exactly judge you when I feel the same way.” 

She was shaking, she could count on one hand the amount of times she’d felt _so much_ for another person. She didn’t bother trying to be quiet in the shared space of their mind. Her affection, her wants, everything she had was on naked display. So often, such honesty was punished or mocked because emotion was supposed to be filtered into something acceptable. Bobby wasn’t filtered. He was as undiluted as he could get. 

He moved her hands again, one hand splayed across her throat. It was a gentle pressure, just to feel her racing pulse. The other moved to drag her fingers across her lips. It was feather-light and Kira _whimpered_ , her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Bobby pressed her fingers harder against the tender flesh, her thumb skimming across her teeth.

“God, you’re so fucking cute I can’t stand it.” She swallowed and her throat was dry from Bobby’s arousal feeding her own. Her lips stretched into a wide grin. “Kira, you’re incredible.” 

If it had been anyone else she would have rolled her eyes. If it had been anyone else… she wouldn’t have believed them. She opened her eyes and nudged her hands, a gentle push in her mind until Bobby let them both fall to her hips. Briefly, she thought that she must look odd, from an outsider’s perspective, but that thought was quickly struck from her mind when Bobby moved her hands to grip her hips, his fingers tickled by the crushed velvet. 

He swallowed with her throat. His fingers brushed the top of her thigh-highs, and hovered. Kira spoke, her voice deeper, rubbed raw from _want_. 

“We should move this to a bed. It’s getting hard to… stand up.” 

A vicious throb nearly took her out at the knees. Bobby’s arousal was so hot and insistent. He nodded with her head and moved her legs shakily. She stumbled down her paint-splattered hallway until she was finally back in her room. Bobby let her have her right hand to flick on the lights. As soon as the lights went up, she felt his fingers crawl back in control, firm and assertive. With anyone else it would have been frightening.

“I’m dizzy.” Kira laughed as she stepped toward the foot of her bed. She raked her hand through her hair and Bobby pulled on it a little, a playful tug but it was enough to make Kira fall onto the bed. “Have you ever wanted someone so much that it made you dizzy?” 

“Not that I can remember,” Kira’s voice always scratched her throat differently when it was Bobby speaking through her. “First time for everything, sweetheart.” He touched her lips again and Kira let her tounge dart out to suck on the fingers he controlled. Just that short, brief contact sent electric white-hot _lust_ shoot through her, another harsh _throb_ made her fall back onto the bed. “ _Christ_ , Kira, you’re gonna kill me.” 

She arched her back as Bobby _finally_ cupped her breasts. Even through the dress, it was an intoxicating mixture of pleasure from Kira and Bobby. He groaned at how soft she was and she whimpered at his touch that burned like _worship_. 

“Take it off,” Kira whined and her arms froze for a moment when they both went for control at the same time. “Take my dress off.” 

She sat up and Bobby had her hands scrambling for the bottom of the dress as she stood up long enough to rip her dress over her head. The air hit her bare skin and she wobbled on her feet. Bobby was out of breath, his fingers trailing up her legs to gently ease off her stockings. Every caress felt like a kiss and Kira shuddered at how a low growl resonated in her chest. 

“Kira,” his voice was ragged, like he was hungry for something unattainable. His fingers brushed against her soaked underwear. “You’re wet,” he grinned when Kira’s cheeks bloomed scarlet. “You’re wet for me.” 

Kira whined but still managed to roll her eyes. 

“Who else would I be fucking wet for? Come _on_ , Bobby.” 

For a reason Bobby had yet to explain to her, he _loved it_ when Kira would swear. Whether it was just a slip of the tongue or out of mild frustration, the lights in her apartment went wild whenever a curse word left her mouth. Now, the lights didn’t go crazy, but it was like her whole body lit up in unrestrained delight. 

Adoring laughter bubbled out of her mouth and he moved her hands to smooth through her hair and cup her face. 

“I adore you, Kira.” The way he said it sounded like the end of a Broadway song, a musical declaration right before an audience would leap up and applaud. “I really do.” 

She felt him pull back so she could draw in breath. She smiled, so wide that she could hardly see. 

“Right back at you, Bobby.” 

He rushed back to catch her when she swayed and he crawled onto the bed, turning her onto her back. His smile was warm on her lips, his moved her hands to shuck off her underwear and kicked them off with her legs. 

“Next time we’re gonna take our time,” both their hearts pounded at the _next time_ , a promise neither one of them wanted to break. Bobby slid Kira’s fingers up her thighs until they brushed against her slick sex. They both moaned, they both shuddered, but it was Bobby who kept moving. “You feel so _good_ , Kira.” 

He kept his touches teasingly feather-light. She writhed, her hips rocking in the gentle rhythm that Bobby set. He moved her left hand to cup her breast and circled her clit. Kira whined his name and Bobby whispered hers. Her pulse drummed through her veins and her body throbbed in her pleasure _and_ Bobby’s. 

“F-Fuck,” they both cried, half-begging, half-praising as Bobby’s fingers kept circling, rubbing, _pressing_ Kira closer and closer to the edge. Her thighs quivered and her breath caught in her chest as they _finally_ toppled over that edge. 

When Kira came back into consciousness, Bobby was gently running her fingers over her stomach in small, tickling circles. She shivered and her lips quirked up. 

“You’re back.” 

Kira hummed, low and deep in her throat, satisfied and _full_. 

“I am.” She pushed her face against her right hand. Her fingers brushed against her cheeks. She felt Bobby’s dazed contentment, the thought of _I never thought I could feel so good_ drifted between them. Warm, bewildered, and silky smooth adoration wrapped around Kira. “That was wonderful.” 

Her left hand crept up her body until it rested over her beating heart. Their beating heart. 

“Next time we do this,” Bobby’s voice was like early morning air in her lungs, crisp and sharp. “I want to have a mirror. A big wall one.” 

Kira flushed all the way down to her chest. 

“Okay.” She slid her right hand over to her left and twined their fingers together. “I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. Is it weird I'm kinda proud of this chapter? Smut always makes me nervous, but this was easy. Probably because I only had to worry about one body to choreograph. And still, I know, it wasn't smut-smut but I do hope you guys enjoyed it! And yeah, the dead can walk the earth on Halloween in this little story. It's cheesy, but I hope it wasn't too distracting.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Feel free to yell at me on my [tumblr](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU MAL for cheering me on and encouraging me to run with this insane idea. It is a gift to you... because of your encouragement and just listening to me and helping me get over my fears. I was really nervous... because it's not really something I've really tried tackling before, especially the upcoming sex scenes. 
> 
> In the next chapter we'll formally meet Stiles and Allison! 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


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